Birger Sandzén on Art, Music, and Transcendence

Birger Sandzén on Art, Music, and
Transcendence
JAMES M . K A P L A N
Sandzén's writings are an important resource for an interpreta­tion
and deeper understanding of his art. In particular, the tree
motif, ubiquitous in both his writings and his art, is fundamen­tal
to an understanding of his work. The tree is a symbol to which
Sandzén ascribed several meanings. First there is the tree as a repre­sentation
of the life force, an important theme in Nordic mythology.
The very first lithograph that Sandzén made, in 1916, C o l o r a d o Pines,
shows the tree thrusting upward, wrestling against the forces of grav­ity
that would pull it back to earth. By its image of intense struggle
and proud victory, silhouetted against the sky, it embodies a view of
the will to live that Schopenhauer would have appreciated. The tree
here is a representative of the Promethean dream of the temporal
penetrating, entering, and crossing over into the non-temporal. Like
the jawbone thrown up into the sky in the film 2 0 0 1 : A Space Odys¬
sey, like the cross on the church steeple jutting into the sky, like the
evolving beasts at the beginning of Stravinski's Rite of Spring fighting
their way upward from the primal ooze to stand erect, Sandzén's
image of the tree thrust into the sky is his affirmation of the capacity
of art to reach transcendence.
There is, though, another image of the tree, diametrically op­posed
and yet complementary: the little copse of trees at the edge of
a gentle stream eroding away the stream bank. As the first image
shows a titanic struggle against gravity, against the forces of nature,
this latter image, so pervasive in Sandzén's work, shows submission to
the forces of nature as, grain by grain, gravity causes the inexorable
erosion of the stream bank. To use Hegelian terminology, if the first
of these archetypal images represents the thesis and the second the
antithesis in Sandzén's psyche, then the third great image of the tree
in his work represents the synthesis: the guardian tree. The pioneer's
shack, like the noble's castle, is subject indeed to the vicissitudes of
31
Birger Sandzén, Colorado Pines, 1916, lithograph
on paper. Birger Sandzén Memorial Gallery, Lindsborg,
Kansas.
nature, to decline as well
as to flourish, but the
guardian tree affirms,
symbolically, that there
is a protective higher
power that shelters the
vulnerable mortals
within.
Such a message is
appropriate for an artist
like Sandzén, who
learned his religious faith
in his pastor father's rec­tory
and carried it close
to him throughout his
life. To understand
Sandzén's art one must
understand its central
motif, the tree. His art
attained a maturity and
effectiveness with which
he himself was satisfied
only when he developed
an appropriate and completely personal depiction of trees. His work
is immediately recognizable by their original and characteristic repre­sentation.
Sandzén's writings are revelatory in that they show a bitter and
depressive, even maudlin, side that rarely came to expression in his
art but yet is essential to an understanding of it. Again and again in
his writings and in his correspondence, throughout his whole career,
he rails against a philistine public of boorish, wealthy collectors and
ignorant, tasteless museum directors on whom the artist depends in a
humiliating slavery. The tragic death of Sandzén's artist friend Olof
Sager-Nelson, in 1905, was clearly a watershed event for him, crystal­lizing
his feelings in this regard; but the motif of the oppressed,
misunderstood, suffering, and dying artist appeared before that and
long afterward. In particular, as Sandzén packed his bags to leave for
32
America in July 1894, the sculptor Per Hasselberg, who had been his
art teacher in Stockholm, died of tuberculosis, exhausted from a
short life of struggle and poverty. A rare artistic manifestation of
Sandzén's depressiveness is his wood cut O l d Tree (1918), where the
emblematic tree of life is depicted as dead and broken. Very signifi­cantly,
it takes on the anthropomorphic form of a human skull. The
most extreme example of this vein in the writings is Sandzén's short
story "Modellen" (The model) published in H e m l a n d e t on 11 Sep­tember
1906. It shows a sick and starving artist gradually dying as he
paints a portrait of a beautiful young model. The only redeeming
element in the general misery is her kindness to him as he dies. Art,
however, is shown to have a transformative, life-changing, one could
say transfiguring effect, as the model sheds her libertine life style and
becomes a humble nurse for the poor. Even in an essay commis­sioned
for Hemlandet on the occasion of the Chicago exhibition of
the Armory show, Sandzén devotes himself chiefly to castigating the
pernicious, philistine role of wealthy art collectors and museum di­rectors
who so often rejected his works, leaving him bitter and de­pressed.
When society has won out over the artist, leaving him
crushed and mute, like the old violinist in Paris,1 like the Troubadour
on arriving at Lucifer's Palace,2 the worst part of this brokenness is
that he has lost the capacity to create beauty, lost the capacity to
enrapture an audience like the Raphaël in Dresden.3
If, then, the theme of the agony of the artist is fundamental in
Sandzén's writings, so also is the theme of ecstasy. His agony is the
result of an underlying depressive psyche and the difficulty of the
artist's vocation in Western society, and more specifically because the
Swedish emigrant artist had no home either in Sweden or America.
The ecstasy arises from beauty, from art, music, or poetry. This ec­stasy
can be caused by a very specific event, for example, the visit of
Theodore Bjorkstén to Lindsborg,4 where his recitations and songs
drove the public into rapture; but more often the ecstasy has a
compensatory fantasy quality about it, and it does not occur in the
"world." For example, it is the bright angel leading the artist into a
paradise of beauty where he never has to submit to the humiliating
process of selling his paintings,5 the school principal being treated to
a celestial concert by the forest animals,6 the Troubadour's tears of
33
joy as he is welcomed into paradise.7 Art, music, and poetry lift the
artist from his everyday failures, humiliations, and depression to a
sweet, pink sunset ecstasy beyond the reach of the grabbing arms and
tearing fingers of the world.8 This vein of otherworldly ecstasy is a
pervasive leitmotif in the landscape paintings of Sandzén. The ring­ing
chords of joy and tears of exaltation in the writings have their
correspondences in the art. In the ravishing, shimmering, otherworldly
pink of his sunsets and his horizons, Sandzén expresses his defiance at
the mediocrity and dependence of his condition as an artist. A study
of Sandzén's writings explains to us the role of this primordial organ
chord of manic joy, a compensatory fantasy of transcendence so
powerful that it can obliterate the effects of time, society, and depres­sion,
if only for a moment.
Alfred Zetterstrand, in his review of Med Pensel och P e n n a (With
paintbrush and pen), perceptively seizes on a particularity of Sandzén's
writings.9 They are not like C h a r l i Johnson Swedish A m e r i c a n or Härute,
both by Sandzén's Lindsborg neighbor and rival, G. N . Malm, depic­tions
of specific problems of Swedish Americans in the New Land.10
Rather, Sandzén's writings are at a much higher literary, intellectual,
and psychological level, treating the problem of the suffering, misun­derstood
artist in a philistine society, a problem that was quite foreign
to the Swedish-American pioneer experience. These texts had more
to do with the Weimar of Goethe or the Geneva of Rousseau than
with Snoose Boulevard or Swede Hollow. It is interesting to note
that the only time Sandzén tells the story of the travails of a working
class Swede acclimating to America is when little Anders cuts off his
finger in the factory in "Children of the Poor."11 This episode shows
us that, in addition to an intellectual and psychological aspect to
Sandzén's choice of subjects, there is a social class aspect too. Sandzén
came from the bourgeois class of the pastor who listened to the story
of Anders's travails, not from the working and agrarian class of people
who endured such struggles and who were eager to read depictions of
them serialized in a Swedish-American newspaper.
This working class discarded the Swedish language as quickly as
it could, eager to overcome and flee its class background. Sandzén
came from a higher class and referred often to his belonging to the
educated middle class for whom the maintenance of the language
34
was a class affirmation as much as an ethnic one. This placing of
Sandzén's writings in the context of European high culture rather
than American proletarian muckraking literature helps us to better
understand his art. The art movement that corresponds to C h a r l i
Johnson Swedish-American is the Ash Can School. Sandzén's art was
never Ash Can! Just as his writings are rooted in European bourgeois
high culture, his art is rooted in Swedish National Romanticism. In
his transfiguration of reality, his simplification of forms and bold
experiments in color, Sandzén's art represents a successful transplan­tation
of Swedish National Romanticism to the New Land.12
Sandzén left his native Sweden in 1894. It was a time of celebra­tion
of the country's Nordic heritage, a romantic affirmation of a
certain idealized view of the national character. Anders Zorn, Sandzén's
teacher, was painting Midsummer Dance, a work that idealized the life
of rural people. In 1895, Hugo Alfvén, the great Swedish composer,
wrote of his "Midsommar Vaka":
I felt a longing to find an outlet for the profusion of
poetic impressions and melodies that I had received over the
years. It would be a song of praise, a hymn of joy to the
Swedish spirit and the beauty of Swedish nature at Midsum­mer
time, written in music's idealizing language [på musikens
idealiserande språk].13
Just one year later Alfred Nobel in his will dictated that part of
the income of his fortune would each year be given to the person
who in literature had produced the "most outstanding works of ideal­istic
tendency." Many other examples of this pervasive idealism could
be cited, but the fact I would like to underscore is that, though
Sandzén was transported to the New Land, he brought with him the
prevailing spirit or one of the prevailing spirits at that time in his
homeland, a profound faith in the validity of idealism as a world
view. For Sandzén and other contemporary national romantic Swed­ish
artists like Karl Nordstrom, Carl Wilhelmson, and Richard Bergh,
this idealism was expressed by creating landscapes of perfect beauty,
harmony, serenity, often featuring a rapturous jewel-like visionary
palette.
35
Music is also crucial to an understanding of Sandzén's art. He
himself was a musician and constantly used musical metaphors, talk­ing
of pitching his palette in a higher key, his color as orchestral, his
soul as being in tune with creation, etc. At a deeper level, however,
music gives us a clue to how his art, particularly his graphic art,
works upon us. In a letter from the 1880s, the French artist Gauguin
said,
I obtain by arrangements of lines and colors, using as
pretext some subject borrowed from human life or nature,
symphonies, harmonies that represent nothing real in the
vulgar sense of the word. They express no idea directly, but
they should make you think as music does without the aid of
ideas or images, simply by the mysterious relationships exist­ing
between our brains and such arrangements of colors and
lines.14
The landscapes of Sandzén, empty of any human being, contain
no families fleeing cyclones, no D.A.R. tea parties, no barroom brawls.
There are no people in the remarkable situations favored by the
American Regionalists John Steuart Curry, Grant Wood, or Thomas
Hart Benton. Rather, contemplating these scenes of nature acts on
the viewer like the swelling tones of a wordless symphony. Sandzén's
greatest works elicit the same free-flowing meditation, the same dis­interested
contemplation, without rational object or use, which re­freshes
and distracts us, at least momentarily, from the cares, vulgar­ity,
and death of the real world. Such contemplation raises us up to a
sweet, floating reverie, perhaps like the one we would enjoy by the
side of a perfect stream, where a lovely clump of birches sways
eternally in a mild breeze under a pale blue sky. The water flows
languidly by, gently washing a picturesquely eroded stream bed, a
marvelous vision, a foretaste of paradise. It is in this mystical capacity
to evoke sweet reverie that the secret and transcendent power of the
art of Birger Sandzén lies.
The six texts that I have excerpted, translated, and annotated in
the section that follows can be called miscellaneous. They come
from the Chicago weekly Hemlandet, the Swedish-American literary
36
magazine Valkyrian, and the Augustana Lutheran magazine Ungdoms-vännen.
They bring together the themes of the mythology of trees
and the agony and transcendent ecstasy of the artist.
" T H E DAY T H E PRINCIPAL GAVE HIS PUPILS A DRESSING DOWN"1 5
[The principal is furious at some pupils who have played pranks
on him. Quite agitated, he takes a walk in the woods early in the
morning to prepare a sharp dressing down for them. The forest ani­mals
play tricks on him to teach him a lesson of humility and com­passion.
Then they put on a concert for him.]
And the crow introduced the principal to the left and to the
right, and the gentleman was all smiles and nothing but sunshine.
The blue jay and the squirrel and the other pranksters came and
apologized, and the principal forgave them on the spot. Soon the
animals began to tune up their instruments. The principal lay down
on his back in the grass, with his hands behind his head, and gave a
kick to the notebook in which he had begun to write his speech.
Suddenly a chord rang out in the great vaulted dome of nature,
so powerful, so wonderfully beautiful that the old principal got dizzy
and shut his eyes. He was not especially musical, but it was quite
simply impossible not to enjoy such music. When he opened his eyes
he saw the conductor, the stately pine tree, lofty and earnest, mark
the tempo.16 While the principal lay there enthralled with the beauty
of it all, a few little violets stood on their toes and whispered in his
ear:
"Dear, kind Mr. Principal, don't you smell our sweet perfume?
We neither play nor sing, but we smell so good!"
"Certainly I do, my dear little friends. You can come along with
me to town," he said and put them in his buttonhole.
The flowers and the birds knew the principal from the old days
and wanted to renew their old friendship, and he was friendly and
good-humored, almost euphoric, and was enjoying himself immensely.
But, silly goose, he had quite forgotten the dressing down he was
going to give his pupils.
Finally, the crow had to tell him to look at his watch. He had no
time to lose. He nodded goodbye to all and sundry, faced the orches-
37
tra, waved with his hat to the conductor, and hurried home. He
looked almost mischievous as he marched into town, his left hand in
his pocket, flowers in his button hole, his hat on the back of his head,
and his whole face lit up with a smile. Suddenly he started to whistle
a happy tune. It was fortunate that the crow had come along to
town. When the principal got close to the school, the crow felt that
he had to tell him to shape up.
"Stop the whistling, put your hat on straight and walk properly.
What if the school boys see you!"
Two school boys had, in fact, seen him. They grinned at each
other and one said, "If you didn't know that the principal was a
teetotaler, you'd think he had a few drinks to start his day."
The dressing down turned out to be a complete fiasco. The
principal talked about the singing of birds, sunshine, and grace, which
is new every morning, about Sweden's lovely spring, about love and
thankfulness to the One who gives all good gifts, about patriotism
and all sorts of things. His words flowed forth like a soft spring rain,
and his face shone with joy. He ended with several kind fatherly
admonitions. The schoolboys sat quietly and listened with rapt atten­tion.
The old guy had never spoken so beautifully. He was really
quite eloquent. I seem to remember that the pranksters went into his
office during the morning and confessed, and the principal forgave
them.
"ST. PETER A N D THE TROUBADOUR"1 7
Lucifer sat on his golden throne in his mournfully splendid hall
and waited for his apprentices. At last the great doors were thrown
open, and in they rushed, shouting for joy as they brought forth their
rich booty, expecting praise and rewards for their exploits.
One brought in some well-fed monks who had sold their souls to
the Evil One. They carried quicksilver in their hands, and one of
them was holding in his chubby paw a big leather pouch, which held
the cloister's tithe, which he had just carried off.
Another apprentice brought in a wealthy banker from Florence,
a greatly feared and respected man, to whom even kings and princes
paid homage. Even Rialto's moneylenders honored him like a god.
38
Then a knight from Venice stepped forward, a hard, proud, and
courageous man who had led the Republic's mercenaries from vic­tory
to victory. A young and beautiful woman was presented who
had spread misfortune and sorrow with her black eyes and seductive
smile. Her glittering jewels and heavy, iridescent, purple silk dress
completely overshadowed the knight's splendid armor and Damascus
sword. Even Lucifer was a little taken aback, and he came down from
his throne, smiled warmly, bowed, took the silky, jewel-clad hand,
and brought it to his lips. The remaining booty, although quite wel­come,
interested him less, and he looked it over rather indifferently.
Finally, a poor starving Troubadour was brought in. He was pale
and haggard, with dark, mournful eyes. His cap and gold-embroi­dered
jacket had seen better days and were dusty and threadbare.18
Even his lute, which hung on his left shoulder on a dirty silk string,
looked battered and pitiful. A few of the strings, which recently had
sung the praises of joy, love, and beauty in warm, melodic notes,
were now broken. Lucifer found the wretched figure so funny-looking
that he burst out in gales of laughter. A lowly novice in Lucifer's
service had caught the Troubadour. He was proud of his catch and
had expected praise for his feat, but instead he was left with egg on
his face.
"You brought me quite a catch!" said Lucifer when he finally
caught his breath. "Well, well, it could have been worse. Better luck
next time." He couldn't restrain himself from teasing the Troubadour
a little. "It seems as though lately you're not doing so well as a
renowned singer and ladies' man. Doesn't look as though you're so
admired and popular as before. First your beautiful voice went and
then your velvet jacket shared its fate. But, all in all, your jacket is
good enough, and down here we don't have much use for singing
and lute music." And he laughed again, and the others all around
joined in despite their dreadful plight.
Finally Lucifer gave a signal, and the whole motley crew was
taken away. The novice took charge of the Troubadour and put him
to work in Lucifer's kitchen, turning the spit, keeping the fires going
in the ovens and checking on the fry pans. At first the work was
foreign to him and distasteful, but, as he got used to it, it became
easier. Quiet and harmless, adrift in his memories, he went about his
39
work.19 From time to time Lucifer looked in on him to see how he
was working out and to give him new commands. He always obeyed
without the slightest resistance, for he was altogether too indifferent
to put up a fight. Bit by bit this quiet and meek person earned
Lucifer's confidence, and one day he was given quite a flattering
assignment. There was a long corridor down the whole of the ground
floor of Lucifer's palace, and on both sides there were ovens where
the damned were tormented in eternal flames. The Troubadour would
now be in charge of all these ovens. He would keep watch over all
these innumerable souls. The work wasn't excessive, since he had
endless numbers of servants and errand boys at his service who brought
in wood and fed the many fires and kept watch over the souls, but he
was such a tender-hearted sort, the poor Troubadour, that it made
him suffer terribly to see and hear all this pain. He was horrified to
see friends and acquaintances among the damned. There was the
happy singer from Provence, his old friend and drinking companion;
there was the proud knight Montauban, whose castle he had visited
so many times; there was a rich burgher from Tours and his pretty
daughter, whom he had been in love with once; and many others
whose friendship, kindness, and hospitality had brightened his exist­ence.
It was just heart-breaking to hear their constant lamentations
and pleas for help, for it wasn't in his power to change their fate.
One day the Troubadour became so overwhelmed by all the
misery and sorrow and by all the memories that had come back to
him that he just couldn't control himself and burst out weeping.
Lucifer, who had taken a liking to him, was out on his daily
rounds and happened upon him, standing there with his hands on his
face, sobbing. It was a rather touching sight, and, although Lucifer
was not known for his compassion, nevertheless he felt sorry for the
Troubadour and wondered what he could do to lift his spirits. Finally,
he thought of something. He went and got out the lute that he had
taken from the singer and commanded a servant to go to a lute-maker
to get the strings replaced with good new ones. When the
beautiful instrument was again usable, he went down to the corridor
and handed it over to the Troubadour with a polite little bow. A t the
sight of his old companion who had been loyal to him through thick
and thin, the poor singer first cried even more bitterly, but, then his
40
artist's soul came to the fore. A n artist is always an artist, whether he
is on patrol in Lucifer's basement or in the meadows of paradise. As
he stood there with the lute in his hand, suddenly the flow of tears
stopped, and his face lit up like a beautiful landscape when the sun
strides forth after a rain shower.20 At first he caressed the strings
awkwardly and gingerly, almost shyly, but all at once the old fire in
his heart flamed up and glorious chords poured out in powerful,
swelling waves of song. He cleared his throat and began to sing. He
wasn't really in the mood, but the fire in his heart quickly warmed up
the stiff vocal chords and made them flexible again, and before long
the beautiful voice rang out in all its irresistible splendor, just like in
the singer's glory days when he charmed everyone, prince or pauper,
young or old.21
Even Lucifer stood motionless and listened with stony, mournful
eyes, his face pale with emotion. He dreamed of a time when he
lived without guilt in light and love. It was as though the Troubadour
had conjured forth by the magic of his voice the perfume, the flow­ers,
the song of birds, sunshine, apple-cheeked youths, people in glad
conversation, and everything happy and beautiful up there in the
lively, bright world. A l l that splendor kicked up a frightful ruckus
down there where sorrow reigned. But Lucifer was so entranced by
the lovely song that he didn't notice that the whole enormous torture
apparatus was coming to a halt.22 The apprentices forgot to pile on
the wood, the fires under the ovens were going out, and tears and
moaning were heard less and less. The souls opened the unguarded
doors to the torture chambers and trooped out into the corridor to
listen.
Finally, the Troubadour paused a moment to tune his lute, and
Lucifer saw what was going on around him; the spell was broken. He
jumped up and grabbed the lute out of the singer's hands and in a
rage shouted out commands left and right. In the blink of an eye,
order and discipline were re-established. The fires burned, and tears
and moans filled the air.
The following day Lucifer and all his apprentices went out hunt­ing
for new souls to bring back. The Troubadour was to stay home
and was assigned to guard the gate of the castle. After a while an old
soldier walked up, greeted him warmly as if they were long-lost
41
friends, and asked if he recognized him. The Troubadour was in one
of his dark moods again; he didn't want to talk with the stranger, and
he looked straight ahead and was silent.23 But the man didn't give up
so easily, and repeated his question.
"I've never seen you before," mumbled the Troubadour without
even looking at him. "When would we have met, I a famous singer,
and you a common soldier?"
The unfriendly answer didn't bother the soldier in the least; he
said calmly, "If you can't remember me, I won't hold that against
you. It's no wonder you get forgetful and in a sour mood living here
in Lucifer's castle; you must be bored to death. But look now, Trou­badour,
I have in my pocket some nicely printed adventure novels,
as entertaining as can be. They'd help pass the time for you and
Lucifer and all his mournful court, and I can let you have them
cheap if you want."
"No thanks," said the Troubadour, "You can keep your old books
about Roland and Charlemagne and his knights and his feats. A l l
that is old worn-out stuff; it's no longer in style."
"But have you heard the Tales of King Arthur and the Knights of
the Round Table and Lancelot and the fairy Vivian and Merlin the
Magician? There's nothing like it."
"I've told you I don't want your books, and besides, even if I
cared about stuff like that, it's not allowed down here to tell stories or
read poetry. Lucifer has no interest whatever in any sort of pleasure.
Even I got to sing here only once, and that put him in a foul mood."
"Well, if that's how it is, I'd better just go on my way then," the
soldier said and got ready to leave. "I guess you're not interested in
cards and dice either? Bye then." And he left.
But then the Troubadour came to life. "Wait a while," he yelled,
running down the stairs. He grabbed the soldier by the sleeve. "I'm
sorry I didn't recognize you. How dumb and absent-minded not to
recognize one's best friends. Please forgive me, old friend. Now let's
spend some time together. Didn't I hear you say you had a deck of
cards on you?"
"I knew you'd recognize me," said the soldier with a cheery grin
that reassured the Troubadour that his cool welcome would not be
held against him. "But now we have no time to lose, for Lucifer
42
could come back at any moment."
They went in and sat down at the table in the hall, and the
soldier brought out his playing cards. He emptied out a big pouch
filled with shiny gold ducats on the table.
"Genuine, every single one. If you want to play for high stakes
that's fine with me."
The Troubadour looked a little embarrassed. He had earned
large sums in his day, but he had never been able to hold on to it, for
he had been kind-hearted and generous to all.2 4 Money burned a
hole in his pocket, whether it was gold ducats or copper pennies, and
he couldn't rest until he had spent it.
"I don't have a single ducat, sadly enough," he said. " A l l I have
to bet with are the poor souls down in the furnaces, if that's OK with
you."
"That's certainly a pretty poor ante," said the soldier with a smile,
"but we're not so picky among friends. You have plenty of souls, and
Lucifer probably won't even notice if you happen to lose a few."
Pretty soon they were deep in the game, but though the Troubadour
had the most terrible luck, the gambling fever rose so quickly in him
that pretty soon he was out of control. In the beginning he would
only dare to wager one soul at a time, but then he bet two or three,
and when he was completely caught up in the game he raised the
ante to one hundred, even one thousand souls. Finally, in his de­lirium,
he wagered all the remaining souls on one card. But his luck
was still just as bad and he lost his last bet. That blow dazed him
somewhat for a time, and he collapsed onto the table with his fever­ish
head in his hands.
What would he do now? What if he tried to get his lucky oppo­nent
to loan him a few ducats to try one last time? The soldier was,
after all, his friend and had had unbelievable luck. He certainly
couldn't deny him that little favor.
The Troubadour was just going to get up and pat his friend on
the shoulder and make his request when he suddenly got white as a
sheet and fell back in his chair as if thunderstruck. The soldier had
disappeared, and facing the Troubadour instead was a stately majes­tic
form in a long white robe.25 Justice and power shone on his face
but also infinite warmth and goodness. His eyes glowed with joy, and
43
tears ran in streams of silver down the old man's cheeks. In his right
hand he held a gleaming golden key. Yes, it was he. It was St. Peter.
How often the Troubadour had seen his noble, venerable form on
stained glass windows and Psalters.
"Dear St. Peter," the Troubadour cried when he had regained his
composure. "Is it you who won all those souls from me? How could
you have the heart to take them all?"
St. Peter smiled kindly and answered, "Didn't I win them fair and
square? Besides, you'll see that you won't lose anything in this deal."
Then St. Peter went down and flung open the oven doors, and
the freed souls streamed forth. In the courtyard he ordered the enor­mous
crowd into ranks, and soon they trooped off with thrilling songs
of joy from the mournful realm of Lucifer to the eternal joy of
paradise.26 The poor Troubadour, who was broken with sorrow, stood
at the castle gate and watched the endless procession get smaller and
smaller and finally disappear at the horizon. When Lucifer came
home and noticed what a mess the Troubadour had made of things,
he was beside himself with rage. He called together all his appren­tices
and forbade them absolutely to ever bring home such worthless
and dangerous trash as singers and musicians. He took the Trouba­dour
by the collar and threw him and his lute out, and then he
slammed the door. After a long but happy trip the Troubadour came
to heaven's gate where St. Peter greeted him with open arms.
" A R T A N D THE SPIRIT OF T H E TIMES"2 7
Interest in the fine arts is in a state of rapid growth, and all signs
indicate that a powerful indigenous art is in the process of bursting
forth. In the past twenty years, progress has hardly gone in the right
direction, but then that shouldn't cause any serious doubts, for such
periods of fatigue and waning interest certainly are part of the life of
the individual as well as of the society. Our art production has mostly
sunk to derivative art and mass production. The large public exhibits
offer technical skill and an absolutely extraordinary level of crafts­manship,
but also a pitifully mediocre standard and a muddy, dull,
stencil-image view of art. A remarkable lack of independence and
joy of creation prevails. The primary cause of this is the petit bour-
44
geois attitude, so bad for art, that characterizes our time and espe­cially
our country. Art is a luxury commodity and a pastime, but for
very few people is it their life blood. If the artist doesn't care or adapt
himself to the taste of his rich clients, he can only blame himself if no
one buys his paintings. That's just about how the wealthy "art-loving"
public feels.28 The freedom and independence without which all
artistic creative energy peters out is denied to the people who actu­ally
make the art. And the very worst oppressors of art, strangely
enough, are the very ones who in the normal order of things should
be its advocates and protectors, for example, our museum directors,
art dealers, and leading artists.29 These people, for as long as anyone
can remember, with the willing help of the wealthy public, have
exercised a veritable reign of terror at our oh-so-official art exhibits,
art schools, and museums to which every artist has to conform if he
wants to succeed. Art, especially painting, must drag along an an­chor
composed of calcified tradition as regards "sentiment," color,
composition, etc., which greatly constricts the normal development
of art. The young artist starts his career with burning enthusiasm, his
soul soars on powerful wings towards the empyrean heights of art, he
will create noble works under the sign of freedom and truth, he will
be the pride of his homeland, the flag bearer of his national art, and
so he gets down to work, and one fine day he sends in a canvas
bubbling over with wild ecstasy of color to an exhibit in the high
PooBah's temple of Art. The jury meets, a jury of old codgers hand-picked
by the director, of simply breathtakingly high standards, old
geezers whose hair has turned gray in the service of right-thinking art,
who never committed an offense against holy tradition, who never
strayed even an inch from the proper way. The irresistible freshness
and immediacy of the young painter's work almost catches the right-thinking
jury unawares, and he is within a hair's breadth of being
accepted. As luck would have it, one of art's gatekeepers discovers
that the young painter broke an important rule in landscape compo­sition.
He has dared to put the tree near the middle of the canvas
instead of off to one side.30 Just think, they have not noticed that
before! And then when they look more closely they notice mistake
after mistake. He should have toned down the brightness in the
foreground, the blue in the background, etc. It just so happens that
45
one of the old-timers, a grand old man of about eighty, knows the
young artist and informs him in a fatherly way that he is a promising
talent, quite out of the ordinary, but that he is not yet "up to the
standard." He tries again, paints with life and joy, and sends in a yet
brighter canvas to the venerable academy, and once again gets thrown
overboard. The president of the jury sets him straight in no uncertain
terms, explaining clearly and thoroughly what traditional sentiment
and orthodox standards mean. The young painter doesn't understand
a word of it. He tries time after time, although that darned bogey
man "standards" scares him to death. After being rejected fourteen
times, he finally figures out what "standards" mean. He studies "sen­timent"
and composition, tones things down, learns to follow the
norm, learns pleasant brush strokes and gets himself standardized
frames, puts the painting in a glass case, and takes all necessary
precautions. There's nothing personal and nothing offensive left. The
painting is accepted with high praise.
A l l kidding aside, this rigid standard constitutes a great danger
for the normal development of art. Some of our leading museum
directors brag that up to now they have been successful in keeping
out the dangerous new movements from our public collections and
our official exhibits. And their zeal has not been without effect.
Anyone who has seen our important and representative exhibits
could easily imagine himself back in the glory days of the Parisian
salons, a wishy-washy, mediocre art which suffers from the worst of all
failures, dreariness. They hand out medals for cute little studies and
naked models, just like in the good old days. And they rejoice that
they have succeeded in keeping away the plague, post-impressionism
or what-all it's called. They have branded all these new schools as
signs of decadence and decline. Here they are forgetting an eternally
unchanging law in the domain of nature and art: that everything that
lives undergoes change. The tree that doesn't put out new shoots
when spring comes is dead. The greater the vitality of the tree, the
more lush its annual growth. Likewise, shoots that we call suckers
grow up, but the wise gardener doesn't make a big thing of them.
They're not in the right place, and so he just lops them off. But he
doesn't take offense at them, for they are a sign of life. It is with art as
it is with trees, constant growth and renewal. Seeking new forms of
46
expression is a vital necessity for art. When art doesn't put out new
shoots, it's dead.31
The inevitable has finally happened in our art. The squalls that
have rolled over Europe's art in the last twenty years have finally
reached us. It wouldn't hurt us in the least if the old, decrepit tradi¬
tions sank to the bottom. But how can post-impressionism, futurism,
cubism, or, in a word, the new "expressionism" depict the spirit of the
times? Yes, they are one of many powerful signs of the frightful an­guish,
the grating worry that characterizes our times. People want to
get off of the frightful treadmill; people are tired of the old, worn-out
forms, and people are demanding new values for living.3 2 There's a
stream of idealism in art that is rising up against the old, threadbare
realism. These new schools want to depict the soul of things, not the
outer husk.33 A revival was needed in American art, a liberation
from straitjackets and "standpatism." Thunderstorms are not very
pleasant, but they clean the air in their path. The storm is welcome! May
it put an end to worn-out traditions and gerontocracy in America's art!
" N E W WAYS OF EXPRESSING BEAUTY"3 4
The general public got to know the "new art" first at an exhibit
held at the Grafton Gallery in London in 1910. Things had been
pretty calm in the Anglo-Saxon art world since peace had finally
been made with the impressionists and Whistler and all—those other
troublemakers—and nobody imagined that a serious storm was brewing.
[Sandzén gives a review of the literature on the "new art": Sir W.
B. Richmon's opposition, Roger Fry's defense of van Gogh, Gauguin,
Matisse, etc. He also quotes Cunningham Graham, Lewis Hind, and
Bernard Berenson.]
At long last, the new currents have landed in America, and 1913
will certainly be a year to remember in the history of American art.
The huge international exhibit of about 2,000 American and Euro­pean
art works which recently was held at the Sixty-Ninth Regiment
Armory in New York, and which was then brought to the Chicago
Art Institute, gives a rather clear overview of the last seventy-five
years' developments in art. Although all significant schools are repre­sented,
the post-impressionists and the other "independents" draw
47
the most attention both from the artists and the general public.
When the exhibit closed, no less than 100,000 people had seen
it. In Chicago the interest in the exhibit was just as widespread and
intense.
[Sandzén gives a review of the critics' opinions of the exhibit,
e.g., "the hysterical rage" of Royal Cortisoz and another unnamed
critic who takes on the exhibit's "madness" but whose general im­pression
is positive: "Just about every single artist and critic who is
not completely blinded by old prejudices and traditions predict that
this exhibit will be epochal in America's art life."]
" A M O N G THE ARTISTS: A SKETCH"35
It was a sunny day in May a few years ago, and about a dozen of
us Scandinavian artists were eating dinner at LeMaître's Restaurant,
on Rue de B. in Paris. Just as Paris has its student neighborhood, the
Latin Quarter, it also has its artist neighborhoods. The artists in Paris
cannot, of course, all fit in one neighborhood, and there are several
so-called artists' quarters. The best known are Montparnasse and
Montmartre. Lemaître's is in the heart of Montparnasse and is among
the largest and best, though not the most elegant, in the neighbor­hood.
More than half of the sizeable clientele that frequented the
restaurant every day was composed of artists of various nationalities,
and that was perhaps why it was so much fun. But let's go back to our
Scandinavian friends, who were sitting together in a corner of the
restaurant.
We were laughing, joking, and discussing the events of the day,
especially the newly opened art exhibit. On my right was the gifted
young sculptor Friberg, now living in New York.36 For many reasons,
he was the most popular artist in Montparnasse, known for his charm,
his artistic triumphs, but perhaps most for his extraordinary violin
playing. Suddenly, when our discussion was at its liveliest, we heard a
few weak, wobbly violin notes. I looked up. Over by the door stood
an old man, frail and stooped. Suffering had left its mark on his
deeply lined face. There was no strength left in the arm that held the
bow. When the old man finished his piece he sank down into a chair,
exhausted. His eyes darted fearfully over the happy crowd, which
48
appeared to be enjoying life so much that they certainly had no time
to bother with one of the thousands of poor street musicians who
sing or play for a crust of bread. How many sous would he get today
to buy something to eat? Would he go around begging with his hat
right away, or would he play another number? If anyone gave, it
wasn't on account of the music.
Suddenly, Friberg gets up from our table.37 Where is he going?
He goes right over to the old violin player, whispers a few words in
his ear, takes the old man's fiddle, tunes it quickly, and in the next
instant a stream of melody flows through the room. As if by magic,
all the chatter stops. Where are all these lovely notes coming from? It
is everyone's favorite. Friberg was playing one of our beautiful Nordic
folk songs with a warmth and feeling that can only come from the
heart of an ardent and truly great artist. The final notes echoed in a
melting pianissimo and an almost church-like silence reigned.38
A l l eyes were fixed on the young violinist. He looked around
with a calm smile, and after a few moments' pause he raised his bow
again. This time he played a lively popular Parisian melody, so full of
grace, elegance and blithe youthfulness that when the last note had
sounded, there was a veritable storm of applause and bravos throughout
the room.
People absolutely wanted to hear more, but our friend Friberg
gave back the violin, bowed graciously to the crowd, and took off his
elegant top hat and went around among the tables. You can be sure
that everyone gave and gave generously. The Parisians have noble
hearts and are easily enthused. Friberg emptied the contents of his
top hat into the old violin player's worn-out cap. From my seat I
could see the old man bowing again and again to our friend Friberg
and how he pressed Friberg's hand between his own. A few moments
later he was back at his place at our table and calmly continued his
interrupted dinner.
" T H E MODEL"3 9
He was tall, of slender build, and his threadbare coat hung on
him loosely. He lived in a little room on the fourth floor of Madame
Claude's rooming house for artists. The room was furnished simply,
49
almost shabbily, but every morning the sunshine streamed in and fell
right on the corner where he kept his easel.
Each day his face got more and more pale, and the lines around
his mouth deepened. Madame Claude heard his almost noiseless
steps in the stairway as he went by her door, and she looked out
sometimes to say hello and afterwards would shake her head with its
lace bonnet when she thought of how tired and haggard he looked.
In the apartment below him lived some young carefree artists;
they took each day as it came and forgot their sorrows with a drink.
One day, he wondered what was going on down there, for it was
livelier than usual. As he went by their door, he heard a clear,
beautiful, woman's voice singing and the clinking of glasses and laughter.
He stopped for a moment and listened to the merriment, and then,
when he came up to his room, it looked more lonely, colder, and
smaller than ever.
The following morning the artist learned from his talkative land­lady
that the young artists had gotten back Florine, their favorite
model. She had been away and was back again to model for them.
"She has the face of an angel," said Madame Claude. Her good
heart didn't allow her to add that the girl's reputation was not as
angelic as her face. The same day, on the way to his room, he saw
her. Her door was open, and she sat there by the window with her
head thrown back. She was wearing a flashy red dress with a large
white sailor's collar. The sunshine fell on her light hair like a halo
around her head, and, as he saw her, all of a sudden he got an
inspiration. He would paint her just like that with the sunshine pour­ing
over her, and it would be his masterpiece. He wondered whether
she would be willing to sit for him. He would ask her and hope
against hope that she would say yes.
That night he dreamt about his painting, and it was a happy
dream. He awoke late, and the sun was already streaming into his
room. He got dressed quickly and, without waiting for his usual
simple breakfast, he went down and knocked shyly on her door.
He heard rapid steps across the floor, and when the door opened
there she stood in front of him. He looked at her attentively with the
artist's genuine love for beauty. Could this lovely young girl be will­ing
to sit for him? She looked like a fairy princess, and his heart sank.
50
She looked at him, wondering what he wanted.
"My name is Florine," she said simply. "Can I help you?"
He calmed down when he heard her friendly voice.
"I would like to paint your portrait," he stammered nervously.
"Would you sit for me? I live one flight up, and if you would give me
a little time every morning, I would be grateful. It will be an impor­tant
painting."
She neither smiled nor doubted and said with her pleasant, pretty
voice, "Yes, I'll come tomorrow morning, if you like."
That whole day passed like a dream. Finally, he would have
success and happiness!40 He didn't doubt for an instant that his
fortune was made. It would be a large canvas, and he was sure that it
would get a prize at the show; the very thought of his future triumph
got his blood coursing faster through his sick body. He sighed impa­tiently
when a painful thought crossed his mind. "Perhaps, perhaps,"
he whispered, "it'll come too late. Oh, if only I have time to finish
the painting!"
The following morning he was up long before the sun. He cleaned
all his brushes and put a new canvas on his easel. His cheeks were red
with fever when he answered her knock.
"You've come at just the right time, mademoiselle," he said po­litely.
"Please sit by the window."
Florine obeyed. In the presence of this serious man her usual
good-humored cheekiness left her; there was something so dignified
in his bearing, and he didn't try to hold her hand or pay her compli­ments
or bill and coo with her like most men she knew. He was so
different, totally different from all the other artists.
He worked in silence. From time to time their glances met and a
quick blush would color her cheeks.
When she had sat for an hour, he politely wished her a good
morning, thanked her, and opened the door for her with a deep bow.
The same silence and the same intensity reigned the following morn­ings.
Only the bustle from the street disturbed the silence.
He didn't show Florine the canvas until it was almost completely
finished and only a few brush strokes remained. When she saw it, she
was completely overcome with astonishment. It was the face that she
admired most. It was a face of rare beauty, and it breathed purity and
51
goodness. It was the head of a woman radiant with the highest, best,
most perfectly ideal beauty.
For an instant it took her breath away, and then she said with
wonderment, "Is that how I look?"
"I paint you as I see you," the dreamer responded with glowing
eyes.
With a little cry Florine ran down to her room. There she sat for
hours just looking at the wall in front of her. It was covered with
pastels, one of a circus rider in a pink dress who was just about to
make a leap, another of Florine herself in a red sweater.
Florine looked at them, but with unseeing eyes. The person she
saw on the wall had a sallow face with tightly pursed lips and deep
blue eyes and luxuriant brown hair that she nervously brushed back
from her high, pale forehead. Sometimes her thin hands were clenched
in despair that they wouldn't find the right expression, other times
they fidgeted endlessly as though they would never get tired.
Suddenly a sob burst out. She got up, went to her dressing table,
and with sorrowful eyes examined her face in the mirror. Afterward
she slowly pulled off her valuable rings and put them all in a box.
She took the red rose out of her hair and threw it in the corner. Then
she took off her favorite dress, the red one with the sailor's collar, and
took out a simple gray dress. The whole day she sat at her window
and wouldn't answer the cheery greetings that she heard through the
door. A l l day and quite late into the night she sat with her head on
her arms, while the girl in pink danced on the wall in front of her.
The following morning, as usual, she knocked and when she
opened his door she found him lying in bed; his cheeks were red and
his eyes glistened with fever.
"I can't work today," he said weakly. "I can't get as far as the easel
and the painting is almost finished."
She looked at him intently, and in an instant the bitter truth
became obvious to her. Right away she went to get a doctor.
"It's a result of hunger and exhaustion," the doctor explained
after his examination. "The only thing you can do is make him as
comfortable as possible; there is no hope."
He wrote a few lines on a piece of paper and left quickly. He had
seen a lot of similar cases.
52
Great tears of anguish welled up in Florine's eyes, but she forced
herself to hold them back. She stood for a minute out in the long
corridor before she went back inside her room.
"Dear God, let him live! Or take me too."
She stayed with him all day and all night, leaving him only to run
to a restaurant where she bought a lot of delicacies that he couldn't
eat. He didn't ask why she was there; he just lay there with his eyes
closed. Towards morning, when she was arranging his pillows, he
opened his eyes and smiled at her in his simple almost childlike way.
"You're kind to stay with me," he whispered. "The painting is
almost finished. It's yours, if you want it."
She put her head down on the bed at his side, and for a moment
he touched her hair. When she looked up again, quietly and peace­fully,
he had entered eternity.
It was Florine who took care of everything. She cleaned up the
shabby little room and bought a lot of white flowers for his casket.
She couldn't touch the painting. For her it was like a holy relic.
When they came to take him away, she sank down behind the
bed. She felt it was a sacrilege to hear their voices and to see them
tramping about in the room, where everything had been so cozy and
peaceful. She heard them walk by and look around, and after they
went to the corner where the easel was, they pulled back the cloth.
She heard a cry of surprise.
"It's a masterpiece," one of them said. "It's the face of a saint."
"The poor guy," the other one said. "That's the face of someone
he loved." And he looked with respect at the artist's emaciated
features.
In the poor neighborhood where she lives, everyone calls her
"the gray angel," for she's always dressed in gray. Her soft caring
hands touch and heal so many suffering people. She has become
their help and consolation, and they think they see heaven in her
beautiful eyes and warm smile.41
Note: The author wishes to dedicate this to D r . C a r l - G u s t a v and Mrs.
Margareta Sandzén on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
53
ENDNOTES
1. See p. 47, "Among the Artists."
2. See p. 37, "St. Peter and the Troubadour."
3. Swedish-American Historical Quarterly [hereafter SAHQ] 50, no. 2 (April
1999): 41.
4. Ibid., 26-27.
5. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111-13.
6. See p. 36, "The Day the Principal Gave His Students a Dressing Down."
7. "St. Peter and the Troubadour."
8. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 112.
9. Ibid, 95-96.
10. Mary Ann Kim and Sherry Case Maurer, eds.. Immigrant Artists in Mid­west
America (Augustana College, 1985), 65-67.
11. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 109.
12. Interview with Professor H. Arnold Barton, 21 July 2000. For an excel­lent
recent discussion of National Romanticism, see Michelle Facos, Nationalism
and the Nordic Imagination (Berkeley, 1998), 84-104.
13. Hugo Alfvén, Tempo Furioso, Vandringsår (Stockholm 1948), 86.
14. Kenneth Clark, landscape Into Art (New York, 1949), 232-33.
15. "Straffpredikan" was first published in Valkyrian 9 (1905): 239-43. It
also appeared in Sandzén's Med Pensel och Penna (With paintbrush and pen).
The rather long fairy tale from which this excerpt is taken has as its source
Sandzén's beloved student days in Skara. He describes this period at some length
in Pennteckningar från en Resa (Sketches from a trip) XVIII. See SAHQ 50, no. 2
(April 1999): 37-38.
16. As usual, the tree plays the pre-eminent role.
17. In a letter of 16 February 1915 to his brother Gustav, Sandzén mentions
sending this story to Ungdomsvännen (GBGLA). It was published in the April
issue of that year.
18. Here Sandzén reproduces in words Olof Sager-Nelson's painting
Fiolspelaren (The violin player), Göteborg's Art Museum. See Axel Gauffin,
Olof Sager-Nelson (Stockholm, 1945), 193.
19. "Quiet and harmless," the Troubadour is reminiscent of the artist led
into Paradise by the bright angel. See SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111.
20. Sandzén loves the image, borrowed from Rousseau's first Discourse, of
the sun striding forth. See SAHQ 50, no. 2 (April 1999): 41. A knowledge of
the works of Rousseau was common among Swedes at this time. See Emeroy
Johnson, Eric Norelius (Augustana Book Concern, 1954), 39.
21. For Sandzén, music has a magical power to charm, delight, and trans­form.
See note 4 above.
54
22. Sandzén evokes one of the most unforgettable moments in opera where
Gluck's Orpheus tames the Furies of Hell with his song: "Laissez-vous toucher de
mes pleurs / Spectres, larves, ombres terribles / Soyez sensibles à l'excès de mes
malheurs."
23. The Troubadour's "dark mood" evokes one of Sandzén's fits of depres­sion
when he was unable to work. See a letter from Sandzén to Carl Milles, 2
February 1928 (Millesgården, Stockholm).
24. A personal reminiscence of Sandzén's. He supported his dissolute brother
Carl's family as well as his own and was known for his generosity even to hoboes
who came for a handout.
25. The majestic figure is reminiscent of the angel who brings the artist into
paradise. See note 5 above. The appearance of St. Peter is an infrequent ex­ample
of explicitly Christian imagery in Sandzén's writings.
26. This scene is reminiscent of the familiar Swedish hymn "Härlig är Jorden":
Härlig är Jorden
Härlig är Guds himmel;
Skön är själarnas pilgrimsgång.
Genom de fagra riken på jorden
Gå vi till paradis med sång.
Splendid is the earth;
Splendid is God's heaven.
The pilgrimage of the souls is beautiful;
Across the fair kingdoms of the world
We march into paradise singing.
27. This article was published on the front page (right-hand columns) of
Hemlandet 1 May 1913, with a photo of Sandzén. The Armory Show was exhib­ited
in Chicago from 30 March through 16 April of that year. This article was
written at the request of the editor of Hemlandet in response to the huge public
interest that the groundbreaking exhibit elicited. Sandzén, however, did not see
the Armory Show, although he was in Chicago a week after it closed to see the
Swedish-American art exhibit about which he wrote an article in Prärieblomman.
(See Lindsborgs Posten, 30 April 1913.) That he bestirred himself to see the one and
not the other is typical of his parochial attitude that contributed to his outsider status.
28. This theme of bitter resentment against the art cognoscenti is pervasive
and shows up in his writings and correspondence throughout his career. This
jeremiad is a little ironic since the Armory Show featured the "refusés" that the
mainstream did not yet embrace. A good example of the people whom Sandzén
is castigating here is Rickard Bergh, the important Swedish artist, author, and
55
museum director who never appreciated his work and didn't help him. See
letters from Sandzén to Carl Milles dated 13 May 1924, 8 February 1925, 8
October 1936, etc.
29. That Sandzén is telling about his own experiences is clear, since it was
specifically his exuberant palette that many wealthy buyers found hard to ac­cept.
Such complaints are a constant theme in his correspondence with Carl
Milles. The sculptor had recommended Sandzén to a wealthy Swedish-Ameri­can,
Peter Waller, but his wife didn't think the artist's bright colors fit into her
living room decor. Sandzén writes to Milles: "You feel a little ashamed and old
and useless and worn out when you get letters like that [from Waller] but that is
one of the favorite pastimes of the rich to humiliate artists and toy with them in
a condescending tone," 3 August 1930 (Millesgården, Stockholm). See also 18
November 1929, 13 September 1931, 10 January 1932, 10 May 1932, 24 July
1932, 22 March 1934, 22 July 1935, etc.
30. In Sandzén's landscapes the trees are, indeed, generally in the center of
the canvas.
31. It is noteworthy that the key metaphor that Sandzén uses to explain his
position is the growth of a tree.
32. From our perspective of atomic war, the Holocaust, AIDS, etc., it is
surprising to see this world view, which seems more appropriate to post-World
War II than pre-World War I.
33. Sandzén returns often to this line from Balzac: "It is the task of art to
show the soul in things." See a letter to his brother Gustav dated 17 June 1903.
See SAHQ 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 102.
34. This article was published on the front page (right-hand columns) of
the 8 May 1913 Hemlandet, with a photo of Sandzén. Since he had not seen the
exhibit himself, he wisely limits himself to lengthy quotes from other critics. He
places himself squarely in the camp of the exhibit's defenders.
35. This work, one of the most beautiful of all Sandzén's writings, was
published in Valkyrian (April 1900): 202. The subtitle, "Skizz" (sometimes spelled
skiss), was a popular short genre in the Swedish-American press—too short to
have a plot, it was mostly a tableau with a message. Since most Swedish-American
literature was published in periodicals, such short genres were highly developed.
36. Sandzén also writes about Friberg in Prärieblomman. See SAHQ 49, no.
2 (April 1998): 99 and 117-18.
37. Sandzén, an excellent stylist, astutely changes to the historical present
and uses a rhetorical question. Both give immediacy to his narrative.
38. It is Sandzén's message that the unique gift and glory of the artist is the
ability to create rapture. Should the artist be broken by society, like the poor
violinist here, the artist in "His New Studio," the Troubadour in "St. Peter and
the Troubadour," the gift is taken away, and the artist is helpless, like Baudelaire's
56
albatross. In this famous poem, the poet is symbolized by the albatross. When
soaring in the sky, its own element, it is graceful and strong, but when brought
back to earth, it waddles awkwardly, a helpless object of ridicule.
39. This short story was published in Hemlandet, 11 September 1906. The
theme of the death of an artist fascinated Sandzén, and he treated it various
times in his writings. See S A H Q 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 103-11 and 117; and
S A H Q 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111-13.
40. An artist's reputation and fortune could be made by one extraordinary
successful painting at an exhibit. See SAHQ 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 97.
41. The message is that art has a transcendent power to create love and
transform lives. The transformation occurs, however, at the price of the sacrifice
of the artist.

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Birger Sandzén on Art, Music, and
Transcendence
JAMES M . K A P L A N
Sandzén's writings are an important resource for an interpreta­tion
and deeper understanding of his art. In particular, the tree
motif, ubiquitous in both his writings and his art, is fundamen­tal
to an understanding of his work. The tree is a symbol to which
Sandzén ascribed several meanings. First there is the tree as a repre­sentation
of the life force, an important theme in Nordic mythology.
The very first lithograph that Sandzén made, in 1916, C o l o r a d o Pines,
shows the tree thrusting upward, wrestling against the forces of grav­ity
that would pull it back to earth. By its image of intense struggle
and proud victory, silhouetted against the sky, it embodies a view of
the will to live that Schopenhauer would have appreciated. The tree
here is a representative of the Promethean dream of the temporal
penetrating, entering, and crossing over into the non-temporal. Like
the jawbone thrown up into the sky in the film 2 0 0 1 : A Space Odys¬
sey, like the cross on the church steeple jutting into the sky, like the
evolving beasts at the beginning of Stravinski's Rite of Spring fighting
their way upward from the primal ooze to stand erect, Sandzén's
image of the tree thrust into the sky is his affirmation of the capacity
of art to reach transcendence.
There is, though, another image of the tree, diametrically op­posed
and yet complementary: the little copse of trees at the edge of
a gentle stream eroding away the stream bank. As the first image
shows a titanic struggle against gravity, against the forces of nature,
this latter image, so pervasive in Sandzén's work, shows submission to
the forces of nature as, grain by grain, gravity causes the inexorable
erosion of the stream bank. To use Hegelian terminology, if the first
of these archetypal images represents the thesis and the second the
antithesis in Sandzén's psyche, then the third great image of the tree
in his work represents the synthesis: the guardian tree. The pioneer's
shack, like the noble's castle, is subject indeed to the vicissitudes of
31
Birger Sandzén, Colorado Pines, 1916, lithograph
on paper. Birger Sandzén Memorial Gallery, Lindsborg,
Kansas.
nature, to decline as well
as to flourish, but the
guardian tree affirms,
symbolically, that there
is a protective higher
power that shelters the
vulnerable mortals
within.
Such a message is
appropriate for an artist
like Sandzén, who
learned his religious faith
in his pastor father's rec­tory
and carried it close
to him throughout his
life. To understand
Sandzén's art one must
understand its central
motif, the tree. His art
attained a maturity and
effectiveness with which
he himself was satisfied
only when he developed
an appropriate and completely personal depiction of trees. His work
is immediately recognizable by their original and characteristic repre­sentation.
Sandzén's writings are revelatory in that they show a bitter and
depressive, even maudlin, side that rarely came to expression in his
art but yet is essential to an understanding of it. Again and again in
his writings and in his correspondence, throughout his whole career,
he rails against a philistine public of boorish, wealthy collectors and
ignorant, tasteless museum directors on whom the artist depends in a
humiliating slavery. The tragic death of Sandzén's artist friend Olof
Sager-Nelson, in 1905, was clearly a watershed event for him, crystal­lizing
his feelings in this regard; but the motif of the oppressed,
misunderstood, suffering, and dying artist appeared before that and
long afterward. In particular, as Sandzén packed his bags to leave for
32
America in July 1894, the sculptor Per Hasselberg, who had been his
art teacher in Stockholm, died of tuberculosis, exhausted from a
short life of struggle and poverty. A rare artistic manifestation of
Sandzén's depressiveness is his wood cut O l d Tree (1918), where the
emblematic tree of life is depicted as dead and broken. Very signifi­cantly,
it takes on the anthropomorphic form of a human skull. The
most extreme example of this vein in the writings is Sandzén's short
story "Modellen" (The model) published in H e m l a n d e t on 11 Sep­tember
1906. It shows a sick and starving artist gradually dying as he
paints a portrait of a beautiful young model. The only redeeming
element in the general misery is her kindness to him as he dies. Art,
however, is shown to have a transformative, life-changing, one could
say transfiguring effect, as the model sheds her libertine life style and
becomes a humble nurse for the poor. Even in an essay commis­sioned
for Hemlandet on the occasion of the Chicago exhibition of
the Armory show, Sandzén devotes himself chiefly to castigating the
pernicious, philistine role of wealthy art collectors and museum di­rectors
who so often rejected his works, leaving him bitter and de­pressed.
When society has won out over the artist, leaving him
crushed and mute, like the old violinist in Paris,1 like the Troubadour
on arriving at Lucifer's Palace,2 the worst part of this brokenness is
that he has lost the capacity to create beauty, lost the capacity to
enrapture an audience like the Raphaël in Dresden.3
If, then, the theme of the agony of the artist is fundamental in
Sandzén's writings, so also is the theme of ecstasy. His agony is the
result of an underlying depressive psyche and the difficulty of the
artist's vocation in Western society, and more specifically because the
Swedish emigrant artist had no home either in Sweden or America.
The ecstasy arises from beauty, from art, music, or poetry. This ec­stasy
can be caused by a very specific event, for example, the visit of
Theodore Bjorkstén to Lindsborg,4 where his recitations and songs
drove the public into rapture; but more often the ecstasy has a
compensatory fantasy quality about it, and it does not occur in the
"world." For example, it is the bright angel leading the artist into a
paradise of beauty where he never has to submit to the humiliating
process of selling his paintings,5 the school principal being treated to
a celestial concert by the forest animals,6 the Troubadour's tears of
33
joy as he is welcomed into paradise.7 Art, music, and poetry lift the
artist from his everyday failures, humiliations, and depression to a
sweet, pink sunset ecstasy beyond the reach of the grabbing arms and
tearing fingers of the world.8 This vein of otherworldly ecstasy is a
pervasive leitmotif in the landscape paintings of Sandzén. The ring­ing
chords of joy and tears of exaltation in the writings have their
correspondences in the art. In the ravishing, shimmering, otherworldly
pink of his sunsets and his horizons, Sandzén expresses his defiance at
the mediocrity and dependence of his condition as an artist. A study
of Sandzén's writings explains to us the role of this primordial organ
chord of manic joy, a compensatory fantasy of transcendence so
powerful that it can obliterate the effects of time, society, and depres­sion,
if only for a moment.
Alfred Zetterstrand, in his review of Med Pensel och P e n n a (With
paintbrush and pen), perceptively seizes on a particularity of Sandzén's
writings.9 They are not like C h a r l i Johnson Swedish A m e r i c a n or Härute,
both by Sandzén's Lindsborg neighbor and rival, G. N . Malm, depic­tions
of specific problems of Swedish Americans in the New Land.10
Rather, Sandzén's writings are at a much higher literary, intellectual,
and psychological level, treating the problem of the suffering, misun­derstood
artist in a philistine society, a problem that was quite foreign
to the Swedish-American pioneer experience. These texts had more
to do with the Weimar of Goethe or the Geneva of Rousseau than
with Snoose Boulevard or Swede Hollow. It is interesting to note
that the only time Sandzén tells the story of the travails of a working
class Swede acclimating to America is when little Anders cuts off his
finger in the factory in "Children of the Poor."11 This episode shows
us that, in addition to an intellectual and psychological aspect to
Sandzén's choice of subjects, there is a social class aspect too. Sandzén
came from the bourgeois class of the pastor who listened to the story
of Anders's travails, not from the working and agrarian class of people
who endured such struggles and who were eager to read depictions of
them serialized in a Swedish-American newspaper.
This working class discarded the Swedish language as quickly as
it could, eager to overcome and flee its class background. Sandzén
came from a higher class and referred often to his belonging to the
educated middle class for whom the maintenance of the language
34
was a class affirmation as much as an ethnic one. This placing of
Sandzén's writings in the context of European high culture rather
than American proletarian muckraking literature helps us to better
understand his art. The art movement that corresponds to C h a r l i
Johnson Swedish-American is the Ash Can School. Sandzén's art was
never Ash Can! Just as his writings are rooted in European bourgeois
high culture, his art is rooted in Swedish National Romanticism. In
his transfiguration of reality, his simplification of forms and bold
experiments in color, Sandzén's art represents a successful transplan­tation
of Swedish National Romanticism to the New Land.12
Sandzén left his native Sweden in 1894. It was a time of celebra­tion
of the country's Nordic heritage, a romantic affirmation of a
certain idealized view of the national character. Anders Zorn, Sandzén's
teacher, was painting Midsummer Dance, a work that idealized the life
of rural people. In 1895, Hugo Alfvén, the great Swedish composer,
wrote of his "Midsommar Vaka":
I felt a longing to find an outlet for the profusion of
poetic impressions and melodies that I had received over the
years. It would be a song of praise, a hymn of joy to the
Swedish spirit and the beauty of Swedish nature at Midsum­mer
time, written in music's idealizing language [på musikens
idealiserande språk].13
Just one year later Alfred Nobel in his will dictated that part of
the income of his fortune would each year be given to the person
who in literature had produced the "most outstanding works of ideal­istic
tendency." Many other examples of this pervasive idealism could
be cited, but the fact I would like to underscore is that, though
Sandzén was transported to the New Land, he brought with him the
prevailing spirit or one of the prevailing spirits at that time in his
homeland, a profound faith in the validity of idealism as a world
view. For Sandzén and other contemporary national romantic Swed­ish
artists like Karl Nordstrom, Carl Wilhelmson, and Richard Bergh,
this idealism was expressed by creating landscapes of perfect beauty,
harmony, serenity, often featuring a rapturous jewel-like visionary
palette.
35
Music is also crucial to an understanding of Sandzén's art. He
himself was a musician and constantly used musical metaphors, talk­ing
of pitching his palette in a higher key, his color as orchestral, his
soul as being in tune with creation, etc. At a deeper level, however,
music gives us a clue to how his art, particularly his graphic art,
works upon us. In a letter from the 1880s, the French artist Gauguin
said,
I obtain by arrangements of lines and colors, using as
pretext some subject borrowed from human life or nature,
symphonies, harmonies that represent nothing real in the
vulgar sense of the word. They express no idea directly, but
they should make you think as music does without the aid of
ideas or images, simply by the mysterious relationships exist­ing
between our brains and such arrangements of colors and
lines.14
The landscapes of Sandzén, empty of any human being, contain
no families fleeing cyclones, no D.A.R. tea parties, no barroom brawls.
There are no people in the remarkable situations favored by the
American Regionalists John Steuart Curry, Grant Wood, or Thomas
Hart Benton. Rather, contemplating these scenes of nature acts on
the viewer like the swelling tones of a wordless symphony. Sandzén's
greatest works elicit the same free-flowing meditation, the same dis­interested
contemplation, without rational object or use, which re­freshes
and distracts us, at least momentarily, from the cares, vulgar­ity,
and death of the real world. Such contemplation raises us up to a
sweet, floating reverie, perhaps like the one we would enjoy by the
side of a perfect stream, where a lovely clump of birches sways
eternally in a mild breeze under a pale blue sky. The water flows
languidly by, gently washing a picturesquely eroded stream bed, a
marvelous vision, a foretaste of paradise. It is in this mystical capacity
to evoke sweet reverie that the secret and transcendent power of the
art of Birger Sandzén lies.
The six texts that I have excerpted, translated, and annotated in
the section that follows can be called miscellaneous. They come
from the Chicago weekly Hemlandet, the Swedish-American literary
36
magazine Valkyrian, and the Augustana Lutheran magazine Ungdoms-vännen.
They bring together the themes of the mythology of trees
and the agony and transcendent ecstasy of the artist.
" T H E DAY T H E PRINCIPAL GAVE HIS PUPILS A DRESSING DOWN"1 5
[The principal is furious at some pupils who have played pranks
on him. Quite agitated, he takes a walk in the woods early in the
morning to prepare a sharp dressing down for them. The forest ani­mals
play tricks on him to teach him a lesson of humility and com­passion.
Then they put on a concert for him.]
And the crow introduced the principal to the left and to the
right, and the gentleman was all smiles and nothing but sunshine.
The blue jay and the squirrel and the other pranksters came and
apologized, and the principal forgave them on the spot. Soon the
animals began to tune up their instruments. The principal lay down
on his back in the grass, with his hands behind his head, and gave a
kick to the notebook in which he had begun to write his speech.
Suddenly a chord rang out in the great vaulted dome of nature,
so powerful, so wonderfully beautiful that the old principal got dizzy
and shut his eyes. He was not especially musical, but it was quite
simply impossible not to enjoy such music. When he opened his eyes
he saw the conductor, the stately pine tree, lofty and earnest, mark
the tempo.16 While the principal lay there enthralled with the beauty
of it all, a few little violets stood on their toes and whispered in his
ear:
"Dear, kind Mr. Principal, don't you smell our sweet perfume?
We neither play nor sing, but we smell so good!"
"Certainly I do, my dear little friends. You can come along with
me to town," he said and put them in his buttonhole.
The flowers and the birds knew the principal from the old days
and wanted to renew their old friendship, and he was friendly and
good-humored, almost euphoric, and was enjoying himself immensely.
But, silly goose, he had quite forgotten the dressing down he was
going to give his pupils.
Finally, the crow had to tell him to look at his watch. He had no
time to lose. He nodded goodbye to all and sundry, faced the orches-
37
tra, waved with his hat to the conductor, and hurried home. He
looked almost mischievous as he marched into town, his left hand in
his pocket, flowers in his button hole, his hat on the back of his head,
and his whole face lit up with a smile. Suddenly he started to whistle
a happy tune. It was fortunate that the crow had come along to
town. When the principal got close to the school, the crow felt that
he had to tell him to shape up.
"Stop the whistling, put your hat on straight and walk properly.
What if the school boys see you!"
Two school boys had, in fact, seen him. They grinned at each
other and one said, "If you didn't know that the principal was a
teetotaler, you'd think he had a few drinks to start his day."
The dressing down turned out to be a complete fiasco. The
principal talked about the singing of birds, sunshine, and grace, which
is new every morning, about Sweden's lovely spring, about love and
thankfulness to the One who gives all good gifts, about patriotism
and all sorts of things. His words flowed forth like a soft spring rain,
and his face shone with joy. He ended with several kind fatherly
admonitions. The schoolboys sat quietly and listened with rapt atten­tion.
The old guy had never spoken so beautifully. He was really
quite eloquent. I seem to remember that the pranksters went into his
office during the morning and confessed, and the principal forgave
them.
"ST. PETER A N D THE TROUBADOUR"1 7
Lucifer sat on his golden throne in his mournfully splendid hall
and waited for his apprentices. At last the great doors were thrown
open, and in they rushed, shouting for joy as they brought forth their
rich booty, expecting praise and rewards for their exploits.
One brought in some well-fed monks who had sold their souls to
the Evil One. They carried quicksilver in their hands, and one of
them was holding in his chubby paw a big leather pouch, which held
the cloister's tithe, which he had just carried off.
Another apprentice brought in a wealthy banker from Florence,
a greatly feared and respected man, to whom even kings and princes
paid homage. Even Rialto's moneylenders honored him like a god.
38
Then a knight from Venice stepped forward, a hard, proud, and
courageous man who had led the Republic's mercenaries from vic­tory
to victory. A young and beautiful woman was presented who
had spread misfortune and sorrow with her black eyes and seductive
smile. Her glittering jewels and heavy, iridescent, purple silk dress
completely overshadowed the knight's splendid armor and Damascus
sword. Even Lucifer was a little taken aback, and he came down from
his throne, smiled warmly, bowed, took the silky, jewel-clad hand,
and brought it to his lips. The remaining booty, although quite wel­come,
interested him less, and he looked it over rather indifferently.
Finally, a poor starving Troubadour was brought in. He was pale
and haggard, with dark, mournful eyes. His cap and gold-embroi­dered
jacket had seen better days and were dusty and threadbare.18
Even his lute, which hung on his left shoulder on a dirty silk string,
looked battered and pitiful. A few of the strings, which recently had
sung the praises of joy, love, and beauty in warm, melodic notes,
were now broken. Lucifer found the wretched figure so funny-looking
that he burst out in gales of laughter. A lowly novice in Lucifer's
service had caught the Troubadour. He was proud of his catch and
had expected praise for his feat, but instead he was left with egg on
his face.
"You brought me quite a catch!" said Lucifer when he finally
caught his breath. "Well, well, it could have been worse. Better luck
next time." He couldn't restrain himself from teasing the Troubadour
a little. "It seems as though lately you're not doing so well as a
renowned singer and ladies' man. Doesn't look as though you're so
admired and popular as before. First your beautiful voice went and
then your velvet jacket shared its fate. But, all in all, your jacket is
good enough, and down here we don't have much use for singing
and lute music." And he laughed again, and the others all around
joined in despite their dreadful plight.
Finally Lucifer gave a signal, and the whole motley crew was
taken away. The novice took charge of the Troubadour and put him
to work in Lucifer's kitchen, turning the spit, keeping the fires going
in the ovens and checking on the fry pans. At first the work was
foreign to him and distasteful, but, as he got used to it, it became
easier. Quiet and harmless, adrift in his memories, he went about his
39
work.19 From time to time Lucifer looked in on him to see how he
was working out and to give him new commands. He always obeyed
without the slightest resistance, for he was altogether too indifferent
to put up a fight. Bit by bit this quiet and meek person earned
Lucifer's confidence, and one day he was given quite a flattering
assignment. There was a long corridor down the whole of the ground
floor of Lucifer's palace, and on both sides there were ovens where
the damned were tormented in eternal flames. The Troubadour would
now be in charge of all these ovens. He would keep watch over all
these innumerable souls. The work wasn't excessive, since he had
endless numbers of servants and errand boys at his service who brought
in wood and fed the many fires and kept watch over the souls, but he
was such a tender-hearted sort, the poor Troubadour, that it made
him suffer terribly to see and hear all this pain. He was horrified to
see friends and acquaintances among the damned. There was the
happy singer from Provence, his old friend and drinking companion;
there was the proud knight Montauban, whose castle he had visited
so many times; there was a rich burgher from Tours and his pretty
daughter, whom he had been in love with once; and many others
whose friendship, kindness, and hospitality had brightened his exist­ence.
It was just heart-breaking to hear their constant lamentations
and pleas for help, for it wasn't in his power to change their fate.
One day the Troubadour became so overwhelmed by all the
misery and sorrow and by all the memories that had come back to
him that he just couldn't control himself and burst out weeping.
Lucifer, who had taken a liking to him, was out on his daily
rounds and happened upon him, standing there with his hands on his
face, sobbing. It was a rather touching sight, and, although Lucifer
was not known for his compassion, nevertheless he felt sorry for the
Troubadour and wondered what he could do to lift his spirits. Finally,
he thought of something. He went and got out the lute that he had
taken from the singer and commanded a servant to go to a lute-maker
to get the strings replaced with good new ones. When the
beautiful instrument was again usable, he went down to the corridor
and handed it over to the Troubadour with a polite little bow. A t the
sight of his old companion who had been loyal to him through thick
and thin, the poor singer first cried even more bitterly, but, then his
40
artist's soul came to the fore. A n artist is always an artist, whether he
is on patrol in Lucifer's basement or in the meadows of paradise. As
he stood there with the lute in his hand, suddenly the flow of tears
stopped, and his face lit up like a beautiful landscape when the sun
strides forth after a rain shower.20 At first he caressed the strings
awkwardly and gingerly, almost shyly, but all at once the old fire in
his heart flamed up and glorious chords poured out in powerful,
swelling waves of song. He cleared his throat and began to sing. He
wasn't really in the mood, but the fire in his heart quickly warmed up
the stiff vocal chords and made them flexible again, and before long
the beautiful voice rang out in all its irresistible splendor, just like in
the singer's glory days when he charmed everyone, prince or pauper,
young or old.21
Even Lucifer stood motionless and listened with stony, mournful
eyes, his face pale with emotion. He dreamed of a time when he
lived without guilt in light and love. It was as though the Troubadour
had conjured forth by the magic of his voice the perfume, the flow­ers,
the song of birds, sunshine, apple-cheeked youths, people in glad
conversation, and everything happy and beautiful up there in the
lively, bright world. A l l that splendor kicked up a frightful ruckus
down there where sorrow reigned. But Lucifer was so entranced by
the lovely song that he didn't notice that the whole enormous torture
apparatus was coming to a halt.22 The apprentices forgot to pile on
the wood, the fires under the ovens were going out, and tears and
moaning were heard less and less. The souls opened the unguarded
doors to the torture chambers and trooped out into the corridor to
listen.
Finally, the Troubadour paused a moment to tune his lute, and
Lucifer saw what was going on around him; the spell was broken. He
jumped up and grabbed the lute out of the singer's hands and in a
rage shouted out commands left and right. In the blink of an eye,
order and discipline were re-established. The fires burned, and tears
and moans filled the air.
The following day Lucifer and all his apprentices went out hunt­ing
for new souls to bring back. The Troubadour was to stay home
and was assigned to guard the gate of the castle. After a while an old
soldier walked up, greeted him warmly as if they were long-lost
41
friends, and asked if he recognized him. The Troubadour was in one
of his dark moods again; he didn't want to talk with the stranger, and
he looked straight ahead and was silent.23 But the man didn't give up
so easily, and repeated his question.
"I've never seen you before," mumbled the Troubadour without
even looking at him. "When would we have met, I a famous singer,
and you a common soldier?"
The unfriendly answer didn't bother the soldier in the least; he
said calmly, "If you can't remember me, I won't hold that against
you. It's no wonder you get forgetful and in a sour mood living here
in Lucifer's castle; you must be bored to death. But look now, Trou­badour,
I have in my pocket some nicely printed adventure novels,
as entertaining as can be. They'd help pass the time for you and
Lucifer and all his mournful court, and I can let you have them
cheap if you want."
"No thanks," said the Troubadour, "You can keep your old books
about Roland and Charlemagne and his knights and his feats. A l l
that is old worn-out stuff; it's no longer in style."
"But have you heard the Tales of King Arthur and the Knights of
the Round Table and Lancelot and the fairy Vivian and Merlin the
Magician? There's nothing like it."
"I've told you I don't want your books, and besides, even if I
cared about stuff like that, it's not allowed down here to tell stories or
read poetry. Lucifer has no interest whatever in any sort of pleasure.
Even I got to sing here only once, and that put him in a foul mood."
"Well, if that's how it is, I'd better just go on my way then," the
soldier said and got ready to leave. "I guess you're not interested in
cards and dice either? Bye then." And he left.
But then the Troubadour came to life. "Wait a while," he yelled,
running down the stairs. He grabbed the soldier by the sleeve. "I'm
sorry I didn't recognize you. How dumb and absent-minded not to
recognize one's best friends. Please forgive me, old friend. Now let's
spend some time together. Didn't I hear you say you had a deck of
cards on you?"
"I knew you'd recognize me," said the soldier with a cheery grin
that reassured the Troubadour that his cool welcome would not be
held against him. "But now we have no time to lose, for Lucifer
42
could come back at any moment."
They went in and sat down at the table in the hall, and the
soldier brought out his playing cards. He emptied out a big pouch
filled with shiny gold ducats on the table.
"Genuine, every single one. If you want to play for high stakes
that's fine with me."
The Troubadour looked a little embarrassed. He had earned
large sums in his day, but he had never been able to hold on to it, for
he had been kind-hearted and generous to all.2 4 Money burned a
hole in his pocket, whether it was gold ducats or copper pennies, and
he couldn't rest until he had spent it.
"I don't have a single ducat, sadly enough," he said. " A l l I have
to bet with are the poor souls down in the furnaces, if that's OK with
you."
"That's certainly a pretty poor ante," said the soldier with a smile,
"but we're not so picky among friends. You have plenty of souls, and
Lucifer probably won't even notice if you happen to lose a few."
Pretty soon they were deep in the game, but though the Troubadour
had the most terrible luck, the gambling fever rose so quickly in him
that pretty soon he was out of control. In the beginning he would
only dare to wager one soul at a time, but then he bet two or three,
and when he was completely caught up in the game he raised the
ante to one hundred, even one thousand souls. Finally, in his de­lirium,
he wagered all the remaining souls on one card. But his luck
was still just as bad and he lost his last bet. That blow dazed him
somewhat for a time, and he collapsed onto the table with his fever­ish
head in his hands.
What would he do now? What if he tried to get his lucky oppo­nent
to loan him a few ducats to try one last time? The soldier was,
after all, his friend and had had unbelievable luck. He certainly
couldn't deny him that little favor.
The Troubadour was just going to get up and pat his friend on
the shoulder and make his request when he suddenly got white as a
sheet and fell back in his chair as if thunderstruck. The soldier had
disappeared, and facing the Troubadour instead was a stately majes­tic
form in a long white robe.25 Justice and power shone on his face
but also infinite warmth and goodness. His eyes glowed with joy, and
43
tears ran in streams of silver down the old man's cheeks. In his right
hand he held a gleaming golden key. Yes, it was he. It was St. Peter.
How often the Troubadour had seen his noble, venerable form on
stained glass windows and Psalters.
"Dear St. Peter," the Troubadour cried when he had regained his
composure. "Is it you who won all those souls from me? How could
you have the heart to take them all?"
St. Peter smiled kindly and answered, "Didn't I win them fair and
square? Besides, you'll see that you won't lose anything in this deal."
Then St. Peter went down and flung open the oven doors, and
the freed souls streamed forth. In the courtyard he ordered the enor­mous
crowd into ranks, and soon they trooped off with thrilling songs
of joy from the mournful realm of Lucifer to the eternal joy of
paradise.26 The poor Troubadour, who was broken with sorrow, stood
at the castle gate and watched the endless procession get smaller and
smaller and finally disappear at the horizon. When Lucifer came
home and noticed what a mess the Troubadour had made of things,
he was beside himself with rage. He called together all his appren­tices
and forbade them absolutely to ever bring home such worthless
and dangerous trash as singers and musicians. He took the Trouba­dour
by the collar and threw him and his lute out, and then he
slammed the door. After a long but happy trip the Troubadour came
to heaven's gate where St. Peter greeted him with open arms.
" A R T A N D THE SPIRIT OF T H E TIMES"2 7
Interest in the fine arts is in a state of rapid growth, and all signs
indicate that a powerful indigenous art is in the process of bursting
forth. In the past twenty years, progress has hardly gone in the right
direction, but then that shouldn't cause any serious doubts, for such
periods of fatigue and waning interest certainly are part of the life of
the individual as well as of the society. Our art production has mostly
sunk to derivative art and mass production. The large public exhibits
offer technical skill and an absolutely extraordinary level of crafts­manship,
but also a pitifully mediocre standard and a muddy, dull,
stencil-image view of art. A remarkable lack of independence and
joy of creation prevails. The primary cause of this is the petit bour-
44
geois attitude, so bad for art, that characterizes our time and espe­cially
our country. Art is a luxury commodity and a pastime, but for
very few people is it their life blood. If the artist doesn't care or adapt
himself to the taste of his rich clients, he can only blame himself if no
one buys his paintings. That's just about how the wealthy "art-loving"
public feels.28 The freedom and independence without which all
artistic creative energy peters out is denied to the people who actu­ally
make the art. And the very worst oppressors of art, strangely
enough, are the very ones who in the normal order of things should
be its advocates and protectors, for example, our museum directors,
art dealers, and leading artists.29 These people, for as long as anyone
can remember, with the willing help of the wealthy public, have
exercised a veritable reign of terror at our oh-so-official art exhibits,
art schools, and museums to which every artist has to conform if he
wants to succeed. Art, especially painting, must drag along an an­chor
composed of calcified tradition as regards "sentiment," color,
composition, etc., which greatly constricts the normal development
of art. The young artist starts his career with burning enthusiasm, his
soul soars on powerful wings towards the empyrean heights of art, he
will create noble works under the sign of freedom and truth, he will
be the pride of his homeland, the flag bearer of his national art, and
so he gets down to work, and one fine day he sends in a canvas
bubbling over with wild ecstasy of color to an exhibit in the high
PooBah's temple of Art. The jury meets, a jury of old codgers hand-picked
by the director, of simply breathtakingly high standards, old
geezers whose hair has turned gray in the service of right-thinking art,
who never committed an offense against holy tradition, who never
strayed even an inch from the proper way. The irresistible freshness
and immediacy of the young painter's work almost catches the right-thinking
jury unawares, and he is within a hair's breadth of being
accepted. As luck would have it, one of art's gatekeepers discovers
that the young painter broke an important rule in landscape compo­sition.
He has dared to put the tree near the middle of the canvas
instead of off to one side.30 Just think, they have not noticed that
before! And then when they look more closely they notice mistake
after mistake. He should have toned down the brightness in the
foreground, the blue in the background, etc. It just so happens that
45
one of the old-timers, a grand old man of about eighty, knows the
young artist and informs him in a fatherly way that he is a promising
talent, quite out of the ordinary, but that he is not yet "up to the
standard." He tries again, paints with life and joy, and sends in a yet
brighter canvas to the venerable academy, and once again gets thrown
overboard. The president of the jury sets him straight in no uncertain
terms, explaining clearly and thoroughly what traditional sentiment
and orthodox standards mean. The young painter doesn't understand
a word of it. He tries time after time, although that darned bogey
man "standards" scares him to death. After being rejected fourteen
times, he finally figures out what "standards" mean. He studies "sen­timent"
and composition, tones things down, learns to follow the
norm, learns pleasant brush strokes and gets himself standardized
frames, puts the painting in a glass case, and takes all necessary
precautions. There's nothing personal and nothing offensive left. The
painting is accepted with high praise.
A l l kidding aside, this rigid standard constitutes a great danger
for the normal development of art. Some of our leading museum
directors brag that up to now they have been successful in keeping
out the dangerous new movements from our public collections and
our official exhibits. And their zeal has not been without effect.
Anyone who has seen our important and representative exhibits
could easily imagine himself back in the glory days of the Parisian
salons, a wishy-washy, mediocre art which suffers from the worst of all
failures, dreariness. They hand out medals for cute little studies and
naked models, just like in the good old days. And they rejoice that
they have succeeded in keeping away the plague, post-impressionism
or what-all it's called. They have branded all these new schools as
signs of decadence and decline. Here they are forgetting an eternally
unchanging law in the domain of nature and art: that everything that
lives undergoes change. The tree that doesn't put out new shoots
when spring comes is dead. The greater the vitality of the tree, the
more lush its annual growth. Likewise, shoots that we call suckers
grow up, but the wise gardener doesn't make a big thing of them.
They're not in the right place, and so he just lops them off. But he
doesn't take offense at them, for they are a sign of life. It is with art as
it is with trees, constant growth and renewal. Seeking new forms of
46
expression is a vital necessity for art. When art doesn't put out new
shoots, it's dead.31
The inevitable has finally happened in our art. The squalls that
have rolled over Europe's art in the last twenty years have finally
reached us. It wouldn't hurt us in the least if the old, decrepit tradi¬
tions sank to the bottom. But how can post-impressionism, futurism,
cubism, or, in a word, the new "expressionism" depict the spirit of the
times? Yes, they are one of many powerful signs of the frightful an­guish,
the grating worry that characterizes our times. People want to
get off of the frightful treadmill; people are tired of the old, worn-out
forms, and people are demanding new values for living.3 2 There's a
stream of idealism in art that is rising up against the old, threadbare
realism. These new schools want to depict the soul of things, not the
outer husk.33 A revival was needed in American art, a liberation
from straitjackets and "standpatism." Thunderstorms are not very
pleasant, but they clean the air in their path. The storm is welcome! May
it put an end to worn-out traditions and gerontocracy in America's art!
" N E W WAYS OF EXPRESSING BEAUTY"3 4
The general public got to know the "new art" first at an exhibit
held at the Grafton Gallery in London in 1910. Things had been
pretty calm in the Anglo-Saxon art world since peace had finally
been made with the impressionists and Whistler and all—those other
troublemakers—and nobody imagined that a serious storm was brewing.
[Sandzén gives a review of the literature on the "new art": Sir W.
B. Richmon's opposition, Roger Fry's defense of van Gogh, Gauguin,
Matisse, etc. He also quotes Cunningham Graham, Lewis Hind, and
Bernard Berenson.]
At long last, the new currents have landed in America, and 1913
will certainly be a year to remember in the history of American art.
The huge international exhibit of about 2,000 American and Euro­pean
art works which recently was held at the Sixty-Ninth Regiment
Armory in New York, and which was then brought to the Chicago
Art Institute, gives a rather clear overview of the last seventy-five
years' developments in art. Although all significant schools are repre­sented,
the post-impressionists and the other "independents" draw
47
the most attention both from the artists and the general public.
When the exhibit closed, no less than 100,000 people had seen
it. In Chicago the interest in the exhibit was just as widespread and
intense.
[Sandzén gives a review of the critics' opinions of the exhibit,
e.g., "the hysterical rage" of Royal Cortisoz and another unnamed
critic who takes on the exhibit's "madness" but whose general im­pression
is positive: "Just about every single artist and critic who is
not completely blinded by old prejudices and traditions predict that
this exhibit will be epochal in America's art life."]
" A M O N G THE ARTISTS: A SKETCH"35
It was a sunny day in May a few years ago, and about a dozen of
us Scandinavian artists were eating dinner at LeMaître's Restaurant,
on Rue de B. in Paris. Just as Paris has its student neighborhood, the
Latin Quarter, it also has its artist neighborhoods. The artists in Paris
cannot, of course, all fit in one neighborhood, and there are several
so-called artists' quarters. The best known are Montparnasse and
Montmartre. Lemaître's is in the heart of Montparnasse and is among
the largest and best, though not the most elegant, in the neighbor­hood.
More than half of the sizeable clientele that frequented the
restaurant every day was composed of artists of various nationalities,
and that was perhaps why it was so much fun. But let's go back to our
Scandinavian friends, who were sitting together in a corner of the
restaurant.
We were laughing, joking, and discussing the events of the day,
especially the newly opened art exhibit. On my right was the gifted
young sculptor Friberg, now living in New York.36 For many reasons,
he was the most popular artist in Montparnasse, known for his charm,
his artistic triumphs, but perhaps most for his extraordinary violin
playing. Suddenly, when our discussion was at its liveliest, we heard a
few weak, wobbly violin notes. I looked up. Over by the door stood
an old man, frail and stooped. Suffering had left its mark on his
deeply lined face. There was no strength left in the arm that held the
bow. When the old man finished his piece he sank down into a chair,
exhausted. His eyes darted fearfully over the happy crowd, which
48
appeared to be enjoying life so much that they certainly had no time
to bother with one of the thousands of poor street musicians who
sing or play for a crust of bread. How many sous would he get today
to buy something to eat? Would he go around begging with his hat
right away, or would he play another number? If anyone gave, it
wasn't on account of the music.
Suddenly, Friberg gets up from our table.37 Where is he going?
He goes right over to the old violin player, whispers a few words in
his ear, takes the old man's fiddle, tunes it quickly, and in the next
instant a stream of melody flows through the room. As if by magic,
all the chatter stops. Where are all these lovely notes coming from? It
is everyone's favorite. Friberg was playing one of our beautiful Nordic
folk songs with a warmth and feeling that can only come from the
heart of an ardent and truly great artist. The final notes echoed in a
melting pianissimo and an almost church-like silence reigned.38
A l l eyes were fixed on the young violinist. He looked around
with a calm smile, and after a few moments' pause he raised his bow
again. This time he played a lively popular Parisian melody, so full of
grace, elegance and blithe youthfulness that when the last note had
sounded, there was a veritable storm of applause and bravos throughout
the room.
People absolutely wanted to hear more, but our friend Friberg
gave back the violin, bowed graciously to the crowd, and took off his
elegant top hat and went around among the tables. You can be sure
that everyone gave and gave generously. The Parisians have noble
hearts and are easily enthused. Friberg emptied the contents of his
top hat into the old violin player's worn-out cap. From my seat I
could see the old man bowing again and again to our friend Friberg
and how he pressed Friberg's hand between his own. A few moments
later he was back at his place at our table and calmly continued his
interrupted dinner.
" T H E MODEL"3 9
He was tall, of slender build, and his threadbare coat hung on
him loosely. He lived in a little room on the fourth floor of Madame
Claude's rooming house for artists. The room was furnished simply,
49
almost shabbily, but every morning the sunshine streamed in and fell
right on the corner where he kept his easel.
Each day his face got more and more pale, and the lines around
his mouth deepened. Madame Claude heard his almost noiseless
steps in the stairway as he went by her door, and she looked out
sometimes to say hello and afterwards would shake her head with its
lace bonnet when she thought of how tired and haggard he looked.
In the apartment below him lived some young carefree artists;
they took each day as it came and forgot their sorrows with a drink.
One day, he wondered what was going on down there, for it was
livelier than usual. As he went by their door, he heard a clear,
beautiful, woman's voice singing and the clinking of glasses and laughter.
He stopped for a moment and listened to the merriment, and then,
when he came up to his room, it looked more lonely, colder, and
smaller than ever.
The following morning the artist learned from his talkative land­lady
that the young artists had gotten back Florine, their favorite
model. She had been away and was back again to model for them.
"She has the face of an angel," said Madame Claude. Her good
heart didn't allow her to add that the girl's reputation was not as
angelic as her face. The same day, on the way to his room, he saw
her. Her door was open, and she sat there by the window with her
head thrown back. She was wearing a flashy red dress with a large
white sailor's collar. The sunshine fell on her light hair like a halo
around her head, and, as he saw her, all of a sudden he got an
inspiration. He would paint her just like that with the sunshine pour­ing
over her, and it would be his masterpiece. He wondered whether
she would be willing to sit for him. He would ask her and hope
against hope that she would say yes.
That night he dreamt about his painting, and it was a happy
dream. He awoke late, and the sun was already streaming into his
room. He got dressed quickly and, without waiting for his usual
simple breakfast, he went down and knocked shyly on her door.
He heard rapid steps across the floor, and when the door opened
there she stood in front of him. He looked at her attentively with the
artist's genuine love for beauty. Could this lovely young girl be will­ing
to sit for him? She looked like a fairy princess, and his heart sank.
50
She looked at him, wondering what he wanted.
"My name is Florine," she said simply. "Can I help you?"
He calmed down when he heard her friendly voice.
"I would like to paint your portrait," he stammered nervously.
"Would you sit for me? I live one flight up, and if you would give me
a little time every morning, I would be grateful. It will be an impor­tant
painting."
She neither smiled nor doubted and said with her pleasant, pretty
voice, "Yes, I'll come tomorrow morning, if you like."
That whole day passed like a dream. Finally, he would have
success and happiness!40 He didn't doubt for an instant that his
fortune was made. It would be a large canvas, and he was sure that it
would get a prize at the show; the very thought of his future triumph
got his blood coursing faster through his sick body. He sighed impa­tiently
when a painful thought crossed his mind. "Perhaps, perhaps,"
he whispered, "it'll come too late. Oh, if only I have time to finish
the painting!"
The following morning he was up long before the sun. He cleaned
all his brushes and put a new canvas on his easel. His cheeks were red
with fever when he answered her knock.
"You've come at just the right time, mademoiselle," he said po­litely.
"Please sit by the window."
Florine obeyed. In the presence of this serious man her usual
good-humored cheekiness left her; there was something so dignified
in his bearing, and he didn't try to hold her hand or pay her compli­ments
or bill and coo with her like most men she knew. He was so
different, totally different from all the other artists.
He worked in silence. From time to time their glances met and a
quick blush would color her cheeks.
When she had sat for an hour, he politely wished her a good
morning, thanked her, and opened the door for her with a deep bow.
The same silence and the same intensity reigned the following morn­ings.
Only the bustle from the street disturbed the silence.
He didn't show Florine the canvas until it was almost completely
finished and only a few brush strokes remained. When she saw it, she
was completely overcome with astonishment. It was the face that she
admired most. It was a face of rare beauty, and it breathed purity and
51
goodness. It was the head of a woman radiant with the highest, best,
most perfectly ideal beauty.
For an instant it took her breath away, and then she said with
wonderment, "Is that how I look?"
"I paint you as I see you," the dreamer responded with glowing
eyes.
With a little cry Florine ran down to her room. There she sat for
hours just looking at the wall in front of her. It was covered with
pastels, one of a circus rider in a pink dress who was just about to
make a leap, another of Florine herself in a red sweater.
Florine looked at them, but with unseeing eyes. The person she
saw on the wall had a sallow face with tightly pursed lips and deep
blue eyes and luxuriant brown hair that she nervously brushed back
from her high, pale forehead. Sometimes her thin hands were clenched
in despair that they wouldn't find the right expression, other times
they fidgeted endlessly as though they would never get tired.
Suddenly a sob burst out. She got up, went to her dressing table,
and with sorrowful eyes examined her face in the mirror. Afterward
she slowly pulled off her valuable rings and put them all in a box.
She took the red rose out of her hair and threw it in the corner. Then
she took off her favorite dress, the red one with the sailor's collar, and
took out a simple gray dress. The whole day she sat at her window
and wouldn't answer the cheery greetings that she heard through the
door. A l l day and quite late into the night she sat with her head on
her arms, while the girl in pink danced on the wall in front of her.
The following morning, as usual, she knocked and when she
opened his door she found him lying in bed; his cheeks were red and
his eyes glistened with fever.
"I can't work today," he said weakly. "I can't get as far as the easel
and the painting is almost finished."
She looked at him intently, and in an instant the bitter truth
became obvious to her. Right away she went to get a doctor.
"It's a result of hunger and exhaustion," the doctor explained
after his examination. "The only thing you can do is make him as
comfortable as possible; there is no hope."
He wrote a few lines on a piece of paper and left quickly. He had
seen a lot of similar cases.
52
Great tears of anguish welled up in Florine's eyes, but she forced
herself to hold them back. She stood for a minute out in the long
corridor before she went back inside her room.
"Dear God, let him live! Or take me too."
She stayed with him all day and all night, leaving him only to run
to a restaurant where she bought a lot of delicacies that he couldn't
eat. He didn't ask why she was there; he just lay there with his eyes
closed. Towards morning, when she was arranging his pillows, he
opened his eyes and smiled at her in his simple almost childlike way.
"You're kind to stay with me," he whispered. "The painting is
almost finished. It's yours, if you want it."
She put her head down on the bed at his side, and for a moment
he touched her hair. When she looked up again, quietly and peace­fully,
he had entered eternity.
It was Florine who took care of everything. She cleaned up the
shabby little room and bought a lot of white flowers for his casket.
She couldn't touch the painting. For her it was like a holy relic.
When they came to take him away, she sank down behind the
bed. She felt it was a sacrilege to hear their voices and to see them
tramping about in the room, where everything had been so cozy and
peaceful. She heard them walk by and look around, and after they
went to the corner where the easel was, they pulled back the cloth.
She heard a cry of surprise.
"It's a masterpiece," one of them said. "It's the face of a saint."
"The poor guy," the other one said. "That's the face of someone
he loved." And he looked with respect at the artist's emaciated
features.
In the poor neighborhood where she lives, everyone calls her
"the gray angel," for she's always dressed in gray. Her soft caring
hands touch and heal so many suffering people. She has become
their help and consolation, and they think they see heaven in her
beautiful eyes and warm smile.41
Note: The author wishes to dedicate this to D r . C a r l - G u s t a v and Mrs.
Margareta Sandzén on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary.
53
ENDNOTES
1. See p. 47, "Among the Artists."
2. See p. 37, "St. Peter and the Troubadour."
3. Swedish-American Historical Quarterly [hereafter SAHQ] 50, no. 2 (April
1999): 41.
4. Ibid., 26-27.
5. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111-13.
6. See p. 36, "The Day the Principal Gave His Students a Dressing Down."
7. "St. Peter and the Troubadour."
8. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 112.
9. Ibid, 95-96.
10. Mary Ann Kim and Sherry Case Maurer, eds.. Immigrant Artists in Mid­west
America (Augustana College, 1985), 65-67.
11. SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 109.
12. Interview with Professor H. Arnold Barton, 21 July 2000. For an excel­lent
recent discussion of National Romanticism, see Michelle Facos, Nationalism
and the Nordic Imagination (Berkeley, 1998), 84-104.
13. Hugo Alfvén, Tempo Furioso, Vandringsår (Stockholm 1948), 86.
14. Kenneth Clark, landscape Into Art (New York, 1949), 232-33.
15. "Straffpredikan" was first published in Valkyrian 9 (1905): 239-43. It
also appeared in Sandzén's Med Pensel och Penna (With paintbrush and pen).
The rather long fairy tale from which this excerpt is taken has as its source
Sandzén's beloved student days in Skara. He describes this period at some length
in Pennteckningar från en Resa (Sketches from a trip) XVIII. See SAHQ 50, no. 2
(April 1999): 37-38.
16. As usual, the tree plays the pre-eminent role.
17. In a letter of 16 February 1915 to his brother Gustav, Sandzén mentions
sending this story to Ungdomsvännen (GBGLA). It was published in the April
issue of that year.
18. Here Sandzén reproduces in words Olof Sager-Nelson's painting
Fiolspelaren (The violin player), Göteborg's Art Museum. See Axel Gauffin,
Olof Sager-Nelson (Stockholm, 1945), 193.
19. "Quiet and harmless," the Troubadour is reminiscent of the artist led
into Paradise by the bright angel. See SAHQ 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111.
20. Sandzén loves the image, borrowed from Rousseau's first Discourse, of
the sun striding forth. See SAHQ 50, no. 2 (April 1999): 41. A knowledge of
the works of Rousseau was common among Swedes at this time. See Emeroy
Johnson, Eric Norelius (Augustana Book Concern, 1954), 39.
21. For Sandzén, music has a magical power to charm, delight, and trans­form.
See note 4 above.
54
22. Sandzén evokes one of the most unforgettable moments in opera where
Gluck's Orpheus tames the Furies of Hell with his song: "Laissez-vous toucher de
mes pleurs / Spectres, larves, ombres terribles / Soyez sensibles à l'excès de mes
malheurs."
23. The Troubadour's "dark mood" evokes one of Sandzén's fits of depres­sion
when he was unable to work. See a letter from Sandzén to Carl Milles, 2
February 1928 (Millesgården, Stockholm).
24. A personal reminiscence of Sandzén's. He supported his dissolute brother
Carl's family as well as his own and was known for his generosity even to hoboes
who came for a handout.
25. The majestic figure is reminiscent of the angel who brings the artist into
paradise. See note 5 above. The appearance of St. Peter is an infrequent ex­ample
of explicitly Christian imagery in Sandzén's writings.
26. This scene is reminiscent of the familiar Swedish hymn "Härlig är Jorden":
Härlig är Jorden
Härlig är Guds himmel;
Skön är själarnas pilgrimsgång.
Genom de fagra riken på jorden
Gå vi till paradis med sång.
Splendid is the earth;
Splendid is God's heaven.
The pilgrimage of the souls is beautiful;
Across the fair kingdoms of the world
We march into paradise singing.
27. This article was published on the front page (right-hand columns) of
Hemlandet 1 May 1913, with a photo of Sandzén. The Armory Show was exhib­ited
in Chicago from 30 March through 16 April of that year. This article was
written at the request of the editor of Hemlandet in response to the huge public
interest that the groundbreaking exhibit elicited. Sandzén, however, did not see
the Armory Show, although he was in Chicago a week after it closed to see the
Swedish-American art exhibit about which he wrote an article in Prärieblomman.
(See Lindsborgs Posten, 30 April 1913.) That he bestirred himself to see the one and
not the other is typical of his parochial attitude that contributed to his outsider status.
28. This theme of bitter resentment against the art cognoscenti is pervasive
and shows up in his writings and correspondence throughout his career. This
jeremiad is a little ironic since the Armory Show featured the "refusés" that the
mainstream did not yet embrace. A good example of the people whom Sandzén
is castigating here is Rickard Bergh, the important Swedish artist, author, and
55
museum director who never appreciated his work and didn't help him. See
letters from Sandzén to Carl Milles dated 13 May 1924, 8 February 1925, 8
October 1936, etc.
29. That Sandzén is telling about his own experiences is clear, since it was
specifically his exuberant palette that many wealthy buyers found hard to ac­cept.
Such complaints are a constant theme in his correspondence with Carl
Milles. The sculptor had recommended Sandzén to a wealthy Swedish-Ameri­can,
Peter Waller, but his wife didn't think the artist's bright colors fit into her
living room decor. Sandzén writes to Milles: "You feel a little ashamed and old
and useless and worn out when you get letters like that [from Waller] but that is
one of the favorite pastimes of the rich to humiliate artists and toy with them in
a condescending tone," 3 August 1930 (Millesgården, Stockholm). See also 18
November 1929, 13 September 1931, 10 January 1932, 10 May 1932, 24 July
1932, 22 March 1934, 22 July 1935, etc.
30. In Sandzén's landscapes the trees are, indeed, generally in the center of
the canvas.
31. It is noteworthy that the key metaphor that Sandzén uses to explain his
position is the growth of a tree.
32. From our perspective of atomic war, the Holocaust, AIDS, etc., it is
surprising to see this world view, which seems more appropriate to post-World
War II than pre-World War I.
33. Sandzén returns often to this line from Balzac: "It is the task of art to
show the soul in things." See a letter to his brother Gustav dated 17 June 1903.
See SAHQ 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 102.
34. This article was published on the front page (right-hand columns) of
the 8 May 1913 Hemlandet, with a photo of Sandzén. Since he had not seen the
exhibit himself, he wisely limits himself to lengthy quotes from other critics. He
places himself squarely in the camp of the exhibit's defenders.
35. This work, one of the most beautiful of all Sandzén's writings, was
published in Valkyrian (April 1900): 202. The subtitle, "Skizz" (sometimes spelled
skiss), was a popular short genre in the Swedish-American press—too short to
have a plot, it was mostly a tableau with a message. Since most Swedish-American
literature was published in periodicals, such short genres were highly developed.
36. Sandzén also writes about Friberg in Prärieblomman. See SAHQ 49, no.
2 (April 1998): 99 and 117-18.
37. Sandzén, an excellent stylist, astutely changes to the historical present
and uses a rhetorical question. Both give immediacy to his narrative.
38. It is Sandzén's message that the unique gift and glory of the artist is the
ability to create rapture. Should the artist be broken by society, like the poor
violinist here, the artist in "His New Studio," the Troubadour in "St. Peter and
the Troubadour," the gift is taken away, and the artist is helpless, like Baudelaire's
56
albatross. In this famous poem, the poet is symbolized by the albatross. When
soaring in the sky, its own element, it is graceful and strong, but when brought
back to earth, it waddles awkwardly, a helpless object of ridicule.
39. This short story was published in Hemlandet, 11 September 1906. The
theme of the death of an artist fascinated Sandzén, and he treated it various
times in his writings. See S A H Q 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 103-11 and 117; and
S A H Q 51, no. 2 (April 2000): 111-13.
40. An artist's reputation and fortune could be made by one extraordinary
successful painting at an exhibit. See SAHQ 49, no. 2 (April 1998): 97.
41. The message is that art has a transcendent power to create love and
transform lives. The transformation occurs, however, at the price of the sacrifice
of the artist.